


Inch

by OctarineSparks



Category: Sherlock - Fandom
Genre: Almost smut, Angst, Lust, M/M, Masturbation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-12
Updated: 2014-04-12
Packaged: 2018-01-19 01:44:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,590
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1450696
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OctarineSparks/pseuds/OctarineSparks
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the end, it's not the closeness, but the space between them, that finally pulls Sherlock to pieces.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Inch

**Author's Note:**

> My first smut. And it's not really even that.

There's a reason why he can't defend himself, neither against Mycroft nor that infuriating woman. It does alarm him, sex. It does perhaps more than that.

There's something about it which doesn't sit right with Sherlock. A whine, almost, a logial objection. For it is everything he deems trivial, and what's more, it shames him. To feel those basic urges, desires without reason, or end. His own biology betraying him, his own body rebelling, and it is simply not good enough.

Luckily, or at least, as far as Sherlock believes, in his later years he has at least some control over it. Yes, there are some mornings, where his mind has not quite caught up with reality, when parts of him scream for some attention, but a quick denial is all it takes, and they are forgotten once more. His mind, so defined is it by what it can do, refuses to acknowledge that which it can't. Which is, to say, desire. Chemical reactions, hormones stirred by stimuli that he cannot comprehend.

His head has ceased to be turned by a shortened hemline, a quick flutter of the eyelashes, maybe a flash of promising cleavage. And he is richer for it.

Perhaps, he thinks, much later after the fact, that was the problem. Everything he knows about sex and lust is textbook. This is what makes a man want, this is what makes him primal, so Sherlock turns away from those things and looks to easier sights. Such a shame it is, therefore, that the mind is not so formulaic, and that desire can be found in the one place he forgot to check.

He is far too aware of John's appearance, but his extended holiday from his own libido had made him miss all the clues. A new haircut, a different shirt. The way he smells, for God's sake, and still Sherlock is oblivious. But none of that matters now. Sex is but a different thing as they run, faster and faster, away from death, a subject with which Sherlock has always been familiar.

Relief, it transpires, is the first trigger. The day has been won, and they are safe once more, returning to Baker Street, to home, to themselves. Sherlock and John, John and Sherlock. This is where they live. Where they breathe and become themselves once more. And oh God, all Sherlock can think is, _just look at him_. Half an hour before, they were both on the precipice of death, balanced on a knife edge, and Sherlock almost believed in Gods and angels and witchcraft as his mantra of _johnjohnjohn_ seemed to save the other man's life. They were not unharmed, with droplets of blood lining their way home, but they were, at least, _home_.

And Sherlock felt the relief absolutely _everywhere_.

But John, who had been so brave, and so selfless, as always, was hurt. Staggered and tired and close to falling asleep. Just sleeping, just for a little while. To heal. That's all. But first, affairs needed to be put in order, and quite frankly, the best medicine was required, which meant that tea had to be made.

Sherlock did the honours, as John sat on the sofa, wiping blood from his brow and laughing, to prove to Sherlock's worried features that he still could. And Sherlock, for whom his body, with it's needs and it's wants and it's _urges_ , was too busy just thinking to realise the truth. He too was tired, riding on a wave of adrenaline, a wave that was just starting to crash on the surface of human endurance.

"You look like hell," John muttered, as Sherlock placed a mug of tea before him.

"Good. I certainly feel like it," Sherlock replied, sitting down heavily next to John.

A silence passed between the two, companionable and unfillable, as both men allowed themselves to feel. Tired, aching, old. God.

They drank their tea while the parts of Sherlock's brain that dealt with that sort of thing tried to tell him that John's knee was right next to his own, but he sipped down the comforting drink, oblivious.

And once that most sacred of rituals was complete, John excused himself, and got to his feet.

His shaking, battered feet.

Sherlock knew that he would topple, the inevitability and ridiculousness of it all far too apparent. Too tired to stop it, to comfotable with the man in front of him to care, he waited, as John shook and fell, backwards, on to the detective.

The motion was sudden, and a lot harder than Sherlock would have thought possible. He was twisted, awkwardly, his back jolting with the sudden jarring of it's already far too abused spine.

For a moment, John was everywhere, but they had done this before. They had been here, tangled in each other, grabbing and pulling and crushed together, as circumstances, bombs and gun sights, demanded.

But then somehow Sherlock was on his back, his legs twisted to one side, and John was laughing, his hands either side of Sherlock's head on the cushions, his leg in between Sherlock's own, raised above the detective only by the strength in his arms. They shook with the effort, but he didn't fall. They were so close, but, Sherlock noted, not a part of them was touching.

He could feel John's heat, between his legs and against his chest, and he could feel the other man's hot breath on his neck. John was still laughing, low in his throat, his head weaving as he tried to look up at his friend.

No contact. None at all. Just the inch of space between them.

Then those tired old soldier's eyes locked with the questing verdigris, just for a second, and really, that was all it took.

A lifetime of running, away from want, away from desire, away from fear, gone in an instant as Sherlock looked into the eyes of John Watson. A rush of blood, hot, _so hot_ , and Sherlock's voice betrayed him with a whimper. So glad was he in that moment for that yawning space that separated them.

John moved himself, shifting and yet somehow still not touching, and Sherlock forced himself to still, the effort almost overwhelming as he kept his hips down, his head back. John, seemingly unaware of Sherlock's sudden, humilating state, sighed heavily, and the flurry of John's breath against Sherlock's neck made his eyes roll back in his head.

John moved again, moving his hands to take the pressure off, propping himself up on his forearms instead, probably, Sherlock assumed, to make a sturdier postion from which to push himself upright once more. However, all that did was lessen the inch, halving it, so John and Sherlock were a hair's breadth away from each other's faces.

Sherlock couldn't tear his eyes away. He would soon come to wish that he could.

" _Sherlock_ ," John breathed, amused and light, tiredness tinged with amusement and other things. Just the sound of his name on John's lips ripped Sherlock apart, and part of him had always suspected that it would one day.

It echoed through his head, his heart, lower and lower to a more basic place. Thought was nothing as electricity ripped through Sherlock, and he pushed himself, down and away from John. Mustn't touch. Mustn't let him know.

His hips protested, wanting to buck and thrust upwards, craving friction that wasn't needed at all. A rush of heat filled Sherlock, curling his toes and burning his cheeks. His breath stilled, just for a moment, and a moan, low, gutteral and unwelcome, escaped his parted lips.

That inch. That God damned inch, that blessed inch.

Separating John from Sherlock's shame, the wetness of his expulsion as desire took over and shook his carnal needs free.

It seemed to cool too quickly, that heat, after the event. It clotted and stuck, and Sherlock closed his eyes, thankful for the layers of material that were there to absorb the surge of his filthy, sudden need. It was uncomfortable, embarrassing, and Sherlock wanted to run.

But John was still on top of him, save for that glorious inch.

The doctor scrambled to his feet, unaware, blessedly so. Sherlock sat bolt upright, the wounds on his back protesting but he paid them no mind. That which he had so studiously ignored for so long had finally caught his attention. Tangible, cloying and wet between his legs.

His face burned with shame, and he huddled over to conceal the spreading darkened patch that exposed him.

"I'm going to bed," John annouced gruffly, swaying on his feet.

"Yes," Sherlock replied, his voice stilted and soft.

John departed then, laying himself down for some well deserved rest, while Sherlock scurried to the bathroom like a base creature, peeling off layers of soiled clothing as he went.

He cleaned himself up, for there was no other option, his heart hammering in his chest with shame and relief.

An inch of space. intangible air that set his skin aflame. A word he wanted to hold in his hands and shove down his throat, to eat, to consume, to have. His name, spoken like a lover's song, like a dirty promise, a token from a whore.

And in return, there was a mantra.

_johnjohnjohn_

While John slept, Sherlock thought of the inch. And, allowing his mind to wander, he closed it again, with his complex thoughts and his pale hand, so soon after but expected, after years of sexual neglect.

_johnjohnjohn_

Empty air making him human.

While John slept.

 


End file.
